One Foot In Front of the Other
by emerald-soco
Summary: Or: Five Things Jim Never Knew About Pam. Or, more specifically, Pam's feet. Just another oneshot, spoilers for everything I guess. If you read, review!


-1Okay, I don't really know why I'm posting this so soon after posting two others, because the response has been a little less than impressive, but what can I say? I'm suddenly obsessed with Pam and Jim. I'm seeking help. Anyway, if you read, **please review**! Enjoy.

**One Foot In Front of the Other**

_Or: Five Things Jim Never Knew About Pam's Feet._

She paints her toenails.

The first time he notices, they're on their third - well, they're not calling them "dates". Pam has been insistent on that. She needs time after walking away from ten years of a life devoted to Roy. She wants to be sure she can still be independent. So they're just ... hanging out.

Anyway. They're having a movie marathon - all romantic comedies, because she insisted and he wants to hear her laugh - and her foot is propped up on the coffee table as she adds another coating of bright, cheerful pink. Jim isn't paying any attention whatsoever to Meg Ryan's latest dating fiasco, he's just watching as she puts the final touches on and sits up triumphantly.

"What?" she challenges when she catches him staring. "Did I mess up?"

"No." Jim shakes his head. "It looks pretty."

It's only the next day at work that he realizes she never wears sandals. It's always those white Keds or, for office parties, sensible black shoes with a closed toe and low heel. She spent all that time on her pedicure and he's the only one who knows about it.

From then on, whenever he glances down at those unscuffed sneakers, he can feel his cheeks flushing the same rosy shade as the polish.

XXX

Her feet are _always_ cold.

Cold actually doesn't even begin to describe it. Pam's feet are two tiny blocks of ice, no matter how many blankets she wraps herself in or how many pairs of socks she wears. She tells him this during another night in front of the television, as an excuse for digging her toes into the couch cushion he's sitting.

"Uh, excuse me," he admonishes, looking down at where her legs disappear from sight. "How 'bout you stay on your side, huh, Beesly?"

"They're freezing," she explains, offering up a small shrug as apology for the invasion.

He lets it slide because it's such a cozy scene; Pam sprawled out on one end of the couch with her hair loose and curly; him at his end, keeping her feet warm and stopping at each channel for her opinion. A few hours later, she's fallen asleep and he hates to do it, but he shakes her awake and whispers that she should probably get home.

To his surprise, she yawns and blinks, then says, "Do you mind if I just stay here with you?"

They get in bed - she's borrowed his boxers and a sweatshirt - and Jim immediately turns on his side, determined not to stay up all night staring at her. But Pam inches closer, wraps one arm around his broad shoulders, snuggles against his back. "This is nice," she whispers.

"Yeah." He relaxes enough to enjoy her proximity, wonders if his pillow will smell like her in the morning. Then she moves, her bare feet brushing against his calf, and he almost yelps. "Pam. Your feet are _freezing_."

Her laugh is low and husky; she's close to sleep. "Told 'ya so," she says, and he shoves back the covers to retrieve a pair of his own socks for her to wear.

XXX

Her arches are extremely ticklish.

This, Jim discovers almost by accident. Sure, he's touching her in a completely intentional way, but it's supposed to be innocent. He's never been in a tickle fight that ended quite this way before, but then, he hasn't had a lot of tickle fights since he left the crawling stage.

Pinned beneath him on the bed, Pam is flushed with energy, giggling, her eyes sparkling up at him like liquid gold. She's still writhing around, desperate for relief, but he's frozen in place. "Earth to Jim," she prompts. "If you're done torturing me now, it'd be great if you'd set me free. We've got to get to work."

"I'm so in love with you," he says. He doesn't mean to - they haven't talked about turning their friendship into more since right after she left Roy. But the words are out there now and Pam's laughter has stopped. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"

"No." She interrupts his clumsy attempt at glossing over the awkward moment. "No, don't apologize. Just ... could you say it again?"

Jim grins - hesitantly at first, then warm and wide. "I'm in love with you."

"I love you, too." Pam doesn't let herself look away as she says it. She spent ten years saying it to the wrong person and now that she's telling the right one, she wants to remember the exact shade of blue his eyes turn when he lowers his mouth to hers.

They're late to work.

XXX

She can stand on the very tips of her toes.

Jim stumbles into his kitchen earlier than usual one morning and finds her straining for a cupboard far above her head. "Oh, my God," he says, seeing the way her feet are positioned against the tile floor. "You're standing like that chick from _Titanic _does."

"While I love that you just referenced _Titanic_," Pam says, falling back onto her heels with a sigh. "A little help would be greatly appreciated. Everything in this place is too tall for me - _you're_ too tall for me."

"I -" he announces grandly, reaching above her to easily grab the mugs she'd wanted. "Am perfect for you." She accepts the mugs and the kiss he presses to her hair. "Now, where'd you learn to stand like that? And does it hurt?"

"Twelve years of en Pointe class." She twirls gracefully under his arm, looking every inch the prim ballerina. "And it kills."

"You know." Jim tries to make his voice casual. "I may have to do some rearranging, due to your severe height impediment. Want me to leave a drawer open for you, maybe some closet space?"

"Jim." Pam tilts her head up at him. "Are you asking me to move in?"

"Maybe." He hedges, because it's exactly what he's getting at. "I mean, it's only been a few months, but you're here so much anyway and your apartment is so small..."

"My apartment is regular-people sized," she tells him indignantly. "Not all of us take after the jolly green giant." He waits, oddly nervous. "But if you can spare a day to help me lug some boxes ... I'd love to move in."

XXX

She taps her feet incessantly.

He never noticed in all his years of pining because her feet were hidden behind her desk, but it never stops. She taps when she's nervous, taps when she's excited, taps when she's losing her patience. He's surprised she didn't tap her way straight through their wedding ceremony.

"You're doing it again," he whispers to her, subtly sliding his foot over hers to still it.

"I can't help it," she replies, but he feels her whole body stiffen in an attempt to control herself. "I'm _nervous_."

"You have nothing to be nervous about. It's going to be great." Jim reaches around her waist to lay his palm on her bulging stomach. "See? Even Evan isn't kicking for once. _He_ knows you're gonna be a hit."

"It's a girl, Jim," Pam reminds him. "Even my mother thinks I'm carrying too low for it to be a boy."

"So, Evana, then?" he suggests, and succeeds in making her laugh.

The bell over the door jingles and captures their attention. A woman - thirty-something and blonde, square glasses set on her nose that make her seem too serious - begins to wander the shop.

"I can't believe this is really happening," Pam breathes, and he stills her foot again. "My own art gallery, Jim. I just can't believe it."

"I can." He lets his hand rest against her belly, feeling their child's heartbeat in tandem with hers. They watch the customer pause, examine the portrait she did of Jim on their honeymoon - eyes the same blue as the ocean he's staring intently at, both filled with so much possibility. "You put that one on sale?"

"Well, someone else should get to see how pretty you are," she teases, leaning back into his arms. "Besides, I don't need the picture. I have the real thing."

The baby starts to kick again, but neither of them mind.


End file.
